Lethal Diversion. Don Pendleton
pants and pointed it at Bolan as he swaggered down the alleyway.
“Look, bitch, this is my alley and my street and that bitch there, yeah...she’s going to be mine, too. Now if you don’t want me to leave you bleedin’ here, you’ll turn your ass around and get the fuck outta here.”
The dealer moved closer, confident in the gun he was swinging around in his hand. Bolan was patient until he was just in range. He grabbed the gun and yanked the dealer forward as he brought his knee into the man’s ribcage. Bolan heard the satisfying sound of the ribs cracking and then brought his elbow around to break the dealer’s nose.
Blood spurted as the man dropped to the ground and cried. Bolan was surprised that he didn’t just yell, but actually lay in the alley, crying. He picked up the gun and went to check on the girl who’d remained motionless during the confrontation.
“You could have been shot, why’d you do that?”
“Because everyone deserves a second chance. You got parents?”
She nodded. “My dad, but he’s never home.”
“Look, I’m going to make a call. There’s a rehab center close to here, it’s inpatient and this guy owes me a favor. Will you go?”
“I can’t pay.”
“I didn’t ask if you could pay, will you go?”
“Why?”
“Because everyone deserves a second chance.”
* * *
BACK IN HIS ROOM, Bolan stood, and stared out the window at the corner where the girl had gotten in trouble. Turned out her name was Violet and she’d really needed the help. He’d made sure the dealer was picked up and put away and couldn’t blow his cover and then sat back and enjoyed his mediocre cup of coffee and contemplated his next move.
So far, all his leads had been toward the Muslim community and some kind of pipeline out of Afghanistan. His cover was flimsy, but holding so far: he was representing a buyer from Los Angeles who trusted his muscle more than the information he’d received so far. The process of building trust, however, and getting close to the source, had proven tedious at best.
In fact, without some new leads, Bolan was going to have to try to get his information in a more direct way. The biggest challenge was a simple one: he was a Caucasian from the United States trying to convince a group of Muslims from the Middle East that he was trustworthy. It wasn’t going well.
These were the thoughts running through his head when his cell phone rang. He pulled it from his belt and recognized the number on the display as a secure call sign. “Bolan,” he said, answering it.
“Striker, it’s Hal,” the reply came. “We’ve got a situation.”
“Don’t we always?” he asked.
Brognola chuckled, but he had to force it out.
“Okay, so it’s a serious situation,” Bolan intimated. “What’s going on?”
“Have you made any progress on your investigation in Detroit?” he asked.
Stepping back from the window, he took a seat on the bed. “Not very much,” he admitted. “It’s slow going. Why?”
“I’d like you to change focus. This is more pressing than any pipeline heroin and comes straight from the White House.”
Bolan could almost hear his old friend chewing his cigar stub to shreds. “Fill me in,” he said.
“There’s a potential nuclear threat inside the city,” Brognola said. He quickly filled him in on the boat found by the Coast Guard, along with the results of their sweep, and Denny Seles’s quick response so far.
“That works out pretty well,” Bolan said. “I did a passing-through hello with him when I got here. So he’s already got my DEA credentials and we got along well enough. What’s the status of local law enforcement?”
“Right now, they just got their Emergency Operations Center up and running. There’s a woman in charge there, Allison Hart, but Denny will take the lead on field operations. You’ve got White House clearance to do whatever needs to be done to find the uranium rods and stop whoever is behind it.”
“I’m game, Hal,” Bolan said, “but it sounds like they’re doing all the right things.”
“They are,” he agreed, “but you and I—and the President—all know that over the next few hours, every federal law agency in the country is going to start fucking around with protocol this and red tape that. The President wants a man there who can cut through all that and just get the job done.”
“And he doesn’t think Seles is that man?”
“He’s the Special Agent in Charge of the Detroit Field Office, so he’s going to be by the book from beginning to end. I’ve read his file and he’s a good man, but he’s not you. We need you on this one, Striker.”
“All right, Hal,” he said. “I’ll close up shop here and head over to the EOC and see what I can stir up. Do they have any leads?”
“Nothing concrete yet.”
“A target? A threat? Anything?”
“We’ve got three dead guys on a yacht in Lake St. Clair and some missing weapons-grade uranium. I’ll shoot the file to your handheld via a secure uplink. The rest is up to you,” Brognola replied. He laughed drily. “Situation enough for you?”
“Sounds like it,” Bolan said. “I’m on my way. I’ll check in with you when I know more.” He disconnected the call and put the phone back on his belt, his mind considering the possibilities. A moment later, the file came through and he looked it over. The dead men were all Middle Eastern. Not much more information than that.
Before he went to see Denny Seles, there was another man who might be able to help, even if it blew his cover. Weapons-grade uranium took precedence, and right at this moment, he needed information more than anything else.
Bolan quickly packed up his few things, making a quick sweep to ensure that the room was empty of his belongings. Slinging his bag over one shoulder, he slipped out of the room and down the hall to the stairs. If he moved fast enough, he might be able to talk to the man he needed to see before his evening prayers.
* * *
THE ISLAMIC TEMPLE OF TRUTH was a combination mosque and community center at what Bolan had come to think of as ground zero of the 8 Mile region. Over the past couple of weeks, he’d come to believe that the man who ran it, Imam Aalim Al-Qadir, genuinely cared about the Muslim community and he’d been willing to share information so long as it didn’t lead to more trouble for anyone.
The imam was in his mid-forties, with skin the color of a French-roast coffee bean and a white goatee and mustache that few men could pull off, but the imam somehow did. Bolan had never seen him in anything other than traditional Muslim garb, complete with a dark red tarboosh that sported golden tassels. He wore silver-framed glasses and a smile that could disarm the angriest members of his mosque.
Bolan pulled his car—a nondescript sedan that had already come close to being stolen several times—into a parking space in the back of the building. Al-Qadir had been forthcoming about his concerns in regards to the 8IM gang, and he’d shared them with Bolan. He had to hope that the man’s contacts in the community would help with something far more pressing and important than the illicit activities of the 8IM gang.
He locked the car and went to the back door, where he rang the bell and waited. From experience, he knew that there was a camera positioned on the roof of the hall beyond the door, and that the imam would be checking his video feed before he answered. It was only a minute or two wait before Al-Qadir appeared, unlocking the door and greeting him warmly in the traditional fashion. “Assalamu alaikum, my friend,” he said.
“Wa alaikum assalaam,”